Margheritas on the rocks with salsa

In the immortal words of Bob Dylan, 'when you got nothing, you got nothing to lose.' This is my attitude about speaking foreign languages -- or any language, really. Gather a few bits and pieces, do your best to cobble them together into semi-coherent statements, and you have about a 50% chance of communicating. Yesterday I had an extensive conversation in Spanish with the woman working at the beauty supply store. Actually understanding each other is always another issue, which is why my hair is now a very strange color.

A more triumphant communication experience this week was the beginning of salsa classes at the Casa de la Cultura. Of course, you don't really have to be able to talk to be able to dance -- a relief. I'm told that the Mexicans who really know how to dance salsa are from Mexico City -- the 'Chilangos,' as they're called around here. The thing about partner dancing -- at least in Latin America -- is that the hombres really need to know what they're doing; it's their job to manage the dance, while the women need to be able to follow along with some rhythm. All this is a way of explaining the irony of a salsa class with 15 or 16 Mexican ladies of all ages, a couple of gringas, a lovely cologned and minty-breathed teacher named Miguel. . . and ONE male student. Come on, guys. . . honestly.

Anyway, Clara and I had a few of our Mexican friends over to the roof deck for margheritas this week. Notice our proximity to the Templo de la Compania -- always nice to keep redemption in sight, even while blaspheming by way of tequilla.